


Strike Us Like Matches

by orphan_account



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Flirting, Grumpy Strife, Humor, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4532568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When businessman William Strife moves into an apartment building near the local university, he ends up with far more than he bargained for, in the form of three overly flirtatious neighbors. ~Hatstrife Uni(ish) AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strike Us Like Matches

The woman showing the apartment had seemed rather rushed, and he had ignored it.

So perhaps it was him to blame.

Then again, who would have honestly expected _this_?

He opens his door that morning to yet _another_ bouquet of roses, which, he’s sure, they haven’t realized that he’s allergic to. Or perhaps they have, and this is all just an elaborate scheme to … what, annoy the hell out of him? Because they’re already succeeding at that.

So he pushes the roses aside with the shiny tip of his waxed shoe and stomps down the hallway, hoping his neighbors are still trying to sleep.

Another day at work.

Don’t get him wrong; he loves work! Well, perhaps not the work itself, but the sense of accomplishment at the end of the day - the determined knowledge that he had done all he could and to a good result.

Of course, when you’re busy mucking around at the bottom of the corporate ladder, patsy to the Big Guys and general all-around whipping boy, it makes you long for the good old college days that his neighbors certainly seemed to be taking advantage of.

His _neighbors_.

He scowls as he steps out into the early morning sunlight.

~

He’s trying not to stomp as he makes his way through the hallway, aware of the late hour. It’s warm and muggy for Bristol - of course, where he’s from, this wouldn’t be anything more astonishing than a late spring day.

But he’s starting to go native, so by the time he’s three steps in the building’s door he’s already yanking his tie off and cursing under his breath. God damn weather. God damn _allergies_ , too.

And his day sure isn’t getting any better, because the worst of the bunch is currently leaning heavily against his door, wearing nothing more than a pair of jeans shorts and sucking way too enthusiastically on a bright red popsicle.

“Excuse me,” Strife says grimly when he’s two yards away. Not far enough.

The tall man raises his eyebrow, as if to say “make me”. The bulge of the popsicle in his mouth is more than a little obscene.

“That’s my flat,” Strife says, choosing his words carefully.

The man pushes the popsicle deeper into his mouth, farther than it has any right to go, and pulls it out, slowly, leisurely, at Strife continues his reluctant approach.

“Soz,” the man says, voice dripping with insincerity. He takes a small step to the right, just enough for Strife to squeeze by him and reach the doorknob.

Strife doesn’t want to take the bait, but he’s also fucking exhausted.

“Thanks,” he says flatly, equally as sarcastic, and steps in beside the other man.

“Strife, yeah?” the man says as Strife reaches for his keys.

Strife snorts. “Don’t play innocent, I know it’s you and your roommates fucking with me.”

“Roommates?” The man laughs. “That’s funny. Most roommates I know don’t suck each other’s dicks. At least not this regularly.”

 _He’s trying to rile you up_ , Strife tells himself. He’s also keenly aware that he’s succeeding.

“Anyway, I know your name, so you should know mine, yeah? It’s Smith.”

Strife lets out a little annoyed laugh. “Yeah, and what’s your first name, John?”

“Alex,” the man says.

“What are you, the most gen-” Strife stops himself. Don’t get upset, don’t get invested. He pushes his door open and darts through, doing his best to block Smith’s line of view inside. “G’night. And by the way, I’m allergic to roses, so fuck off.”

He swings the door shut in Smith’s face, but still manages to hear the other man protest “The roses aren’t me! I’m not a sappy piece of shit!” before it shuts completely.

And then, blessed silence.

~

The next morning he opens the door to a bouquet of gorgeous white flowers, which the label informs him are “calla lilies”. He also sees “SOZ” scrawled in black sharpie on the label, and he realizes that he’s fucking reading the label on an unsolicited gift of flowers.

But after he shuts the door behind him and goes to make his way down the hall, he finds himself staring back down at the flowers and thinking _what’s the harm_ , so he’s got the vase balanced in the crook of his arm and into his flat before he’s realized it.

He sets the vase down in the kitchen, frowns, and vows to throw them out tonight.

~

At least his door is clear this evening.

But theirs isn’t -- and he’s got to walk past it to reach his own.

At first all he can see is a back wearing a black leather jacket, but as he approaches he sees far more clearly that it is, in fact, his other two neighbors, the taller pressing the shorter into the door as they have a _very_ hot and heavy makeout session.

Not okay, not okay, Strife tells himself, trying to keep his eyes away from the two.

But damn it all, they keep getting drawn back, focusing on small details, like the sight of the taller man’s hand, holding the shorter’s shoulder, knuckles white from tension. Like the creak of the leather, even as Strife walks by as quickly as he can.

And if there’s a moment when the shorter man’s eye meets his own …

Well, suffice to say there _isn’t_ such a moment, of course. Anything Strife thinks he saw was nothing more than a trick of the light.

Hopefully.

~

The calla lilies have already drunk most of the water in their vase, and he’s refilling it before he realizes what he’s doing.

Well, no point in throwing them out _now_ , he thinks to himself. Not when he’s already put more water in.

So he sets them down in the center of his dining table, and grimaces at the sight. His house is tidy, clean, and pleasantly decorated; but he doesn’t keep _plants_ anywhere. He can’t seem to manage to keep them alive.

But he decides that’s that, and it’s time for bed.

~

The bouquet outside his door this morning is huge.

It can’t have been bought at an ordinary store; this had to have come from a flower shop. Strife frowns. The gesture is far, far too much. He doesn’t even particularly like flowers.

But they must have spent a significant amount of money on it, and he feels too guilty to leave it in the hallway.

So he carries it inside, and sets it next to the other bouquet. He doesn’t allow himself to look at them for more than a moment before he turns on his heel and leaves for work.

~

This time he sees the other tall man kneeling in front of their door, arranging a welcome mat out in front. It’s not particularly welcoming, actually: it’s taupe with the words “Eat Shit” embroidered in fancy cursive on the surface.

The man turns around, and catching sight of Strife, smiles, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t think we’ve formally met.”

“No, no, you just like to make out in front of me, that’s all.” Strife’s annoyed at how bitter he sounds. He’s not _jealous_.

“It’s Ross,” the man says, holding his hand out to shake.

Strife takes it with some trepidation, but Ross doesn’t try to pull a fast one; just shakes his hand, smiles, and drops it.

He gestures to the doormat.

“It’s custom,” Ross says cheerfully, as if Strife hasn’t already figured that out.

“Really? All the stores I go to tend to sell products with disgusting profanity,” he says, hardly able to stop himself.

Ross smiles, almost sagely, in response. “You go to my kind of stores, mate.”

“That was just--” Strife breaks off. Ross’ smile makes it clear he’s perfectly aware it was a sarcastic comment. “Good night.”

“Sweet dreams,” Ross says, and Strife ignores the blush on his cheeks as fervently as possible.

~

It’s going to drive him mad.

Slowly, but surely, he’s going to go completely mad.

It’s one thing to have loud sex, but this is ridiculous.

He can remember how fucking annoying Smith was, the smug humor in his voice, the sharp superiority.

So he’s really curious how the other two got him in this state - through the thin apartment walls he can hear the desperation in the man’s voice as he begs the other two for, well.

Strife clears his throat. This data isn’t going to analyze itself.

He hears a laugh, overloud, and Smith’s voice is unmistakably pained as he wails “Please!”

Strife’s hand hovers over his computer mouse.

He bites his lip.

Oh, fuck it.

He jumps to his feet, slamming the lid to his laptop down. He pulls his jacket halfway on before remembering himself and pulling it back off again, leaving it discarded on the floor.

The door to his apartment slams open loudly, and he mutters a curse under his breath as he pushes it shut again. He can’t hear them from out here, but his steps are quick as he hurries over to their door.

He knocks, loudly, urgently, and drops his hand onto his hip as he waits impatiently.

He hears the sound of footsteps and the door knob clicks before the door itself opens to the sight of the shortest man, clothed in boxers and doing a lazy job of hiding his erection.

Strife sighs, frustrated, and says, “Well?!”

The man raises his eyebrows. “The name’s Trott,” he says. “What’s up, Strife?”

Strife sighs; of course he knows his name. Of course they talk about him. “Can you keep it down? Some of us are trying to do work.”

“Does it bother you that much? We could use the gag.”

He can’t help the blush and Trott can’t seem to help the grin on his face. “ _I don’t want to know anything, I just want you to shut the fuck up_.”

Trott’s hand moves down to his own hip, mirroring Strife’s stance. Strife stops his eyes from following the movement, knowing what else is down there.

“D’you ever have friends who’d sing that song? You know, the neverending song?”

“ _What_ are you talking about now?” Strife snapped.

“You remember the best way to not get driven mad?”

“What, sing along?”

Trott grins.

“N-no! Fuck you! Fuck off!”

“Just a suggestion, no need to get so testy.”

“Shut up!” Strife hisses, and storms away from the door.

And that’s when he remembers.

“Fuck!”

He’d locked his key inside.

Of all the fucking times. Of all the times, this had to be the time he left it inside.

“Locked out, Strife?”

He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“There’s a couple of ways to pass the time, if you’d like.”

He turns on his heel and storms back to the door, staring down at Trott with what he hopes is a murderous enough look. “You’re awful.”

“So they tell me. Ready to get your rocks off, mate?”

He grips his hands in a fist, and stares.

“Trott, mate, what’s taking so long?”

Trott turns, breaking eye contact with Strife, to face Ross.

Ross tilts his chin back toward the hallway. “Smith’s waiting, mate. Getting pretty antsy. Hey, Strife.”

Trott turns back to Strife, and his eyes are dark and smile pleasant. “Well, Strife? Wanna join?”

Strife bites his tongue. Takes a step forward.

Trott steps aside to allow him to enter.

And he does.

(And he doesn’t regret it, no matter how hard he tries to.)


End file.
